


Spuperman

by bottledyarn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, M/M, Spiderman!Stiles, Superman!Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-16 02:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7249243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledyarn/pseuds/bottledyarn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You must have seen me on the news,” Stiles said. “Wall climbing boy rescues kitten? Creepy crawly nuisance terrorizes theater performance? Police beg man to stop making petty thieves wet themselves?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Plumes of fire exploded up along the horizon, sending dark clouds of smoke towards the sky. Stiles bounced his knee anxiously, staring at the smoke in the distance. Nobody else seemed to notice the explosion – he could barely see it himself, given the stained glass windows. He could feel a drop of sweat rolling down the back of his neck before disappearing into the three layers of fabric at the nape of his neck. The red graduation gown wasn’t helping. The slippery fabric seemed to be trapping his humid heat in, especially when combined with his dress shirt and his skin-tight suit below that.

He’d already given his speech as salutatorian, and he’d already gotten his diploma, and the only person between him and the outside aisle of the massive church they’d used for graduation was Lydia. A year ago, just sitting next to her would have sent his already-sweaty pores into overdrive, but at this point, after the whole lizard fiasco of last year, she was about as scintillating as Scott. Everyone stood to clap as the last graduate returned to their seat, so Stiles clutched his graduation cap and slid past Lydia, squirming out of her immediately grasping hands.

“Duty calls,” he said.

She pursed her lips, yanking his cap off and throwing it viciously into the air along with everyone else’s.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Don’t die.”

Part of him did wistfully yearn for some kind of romantic interest so that he’d at least get a more passionate send-off than “don’t die” in times like these, but he knew Lydia just wasn’t the type of girl to get her eyes all glistening every time he marched off to battle. He reached up and caught his cap, jogging down the aisle and only stumbling on a few of the graduation caps strewn over the hardwood floor.

_“Stiles!”_

He knew it was his dad's voice he was hearing, above the cacophony of the crowd, but he gritted his teeth and continued on, bursting out the large double doors into the June heat. He’d think of an excuse when he got home for dinner.

A particularly overgrown corner of shrubberies nearby functioned perfectly well to do a quick change, and he stripped off his layers before slipping his mask and gloves on. He sent off a text to Scott to have him pick up the pile of belongings later, pausing to admire the new touchscreen-enabled fingertips of his gloves. Allison, who Scott had accidentally let slip to about his arachnidy secret within about a month of their relationship’s beginning, had thought of the idea and fixed his suit for him. She was responsible for most of the suit’s capabilities. Before her, he’d been stumbling around half-blind in head to toe Lycra, with absolutely zero traction on linoleum. He still wasn’t quite sure where she was always getting the fancy tech she constantly was procuring for him.

He spent a mile or two sprinting before finally reaching tall enough buildings to start swinging, and laughed in glee as he rounded a corner to see a straight shot to the fire, perfect for extra fun swinging adventures. The burst of cheer flooded out of him, however, when he realized that the building lit up in flames was the Hale Cancer Center.

“Fuckity shit,” he said, speeding up.

Cars were stopped dead in the streets as he approached, bumper to bumper with their drivers standing outside them, staring with their mouths dropped open at the blaze. He could hear some of them clap and cheer as they saw him overhead, along with a few that jeered, probably assuming he’d do more harm than good.

The fire seemed to start at the fourteenth floor and rise up to the twentieth, the top floor, so Stiles crashed in through a window on the thirteenth. It was the tallest he could reach, anyway, since the hospital was surrounded by relatively short buildings. Smoke instantly filled his nose and mouth, and he scanned the densely gray room for people before climbing through a hole in the ceiling to the next floor up. Still nobody. The hospital wings were barren and blackened, but he couldn’t find any evidence of bodies.

He continued until he finally reached the roof, still not a single person having crossed his path.

“What the shit is going on here?” he muttered, stomping to the edge of the roof and peering down at the crowds of hospital evacuees.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Stiles turned slowly. The voice was low and monotone, and reminded him far too much of the supervillainy voice Doc Ock tried to intimidate him with the year before.

From the dark and soot flooding the roof, black enough that even with his enhanced vision Stiles couldn’t quite see through, emerged a man. Or, rather, Stiles thought, as he coughed into his elbow, lungs stinging, a superhuman. A dark cape flickered behind him, and Batman popped into Stiles’ mind before he scratched that, not seeing any kind of gas mask on his face. He’d assumed for a while that Batman had superpowers, but after working with him in a subway sarin gas attack a year and a half back, he knew that the man was just an ordinary human.

The man came closer, and Stiles pressed his lips together. The dude was _hot_. Like _too_ hot. Like _your parents wouldn’t approve because they’d assume the dude was so far out of your league he must be a scam artist_ hot. And it wasn’t just because of the fire.

“Who the hell are you?” Stiles demanded, putting his hands on his hips. Crap. What a first impression for a goddamn smokeshow.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” the man replied, putting his own hands on his hips. Which were just above his big, muscle-wrapped thighs. Just below his clearly visible abs. All wrapped in dark navy material that was definitely way tighter than any of the prototypes Stiles had ever considered for his own super-suit. The giant “S” on his chest was a bit much, though. Not to mention the cape.

“You must have seen me on the news,” Stiles said. “Wall climbing boy rescues kitten? Creepy crawly nuisance terrorizes theater performance? Police beg man to stop making petty thieves wet themselves?”

“I don’t watch the news,” S said tersely.

“I’m Spiderman!” Stiles said, indignantly despite himself. “I thought I had command of the market on superheroes starting with S, but apparently I’ve got company.”

The building shifted beneath them, probably beginning to collapse, and Stiles closed his eyes, grateful for the mask to constantly be hiding his emotions behind. He would probably survive the building collapse, but he’d probably have to spend a few days in the hospital for his efforts.

“How are you planning to get down?” S demanded. “Why did you come here?”

“Geez, _sorry_ , I thought I was needed to save a bunch of hospital patients, didn’t realize that someone was already on the job.”

The man muttered something under his breath.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing a mask or something?” Stiles asked. “Preserve your delicate anonymity and all that? Keep any death threats limited to your super self?”

“I’m all set,” S said.

“Do you have a cool superhero name?” Stiles asked eagerly. “What’s your power, anyway, other than obvious imperviousness to smoke inhalation.”

“Invincibility,” S said. “Flight. Strength. Speed.”

“Alright,” Stiles snapped, having the sneaking suspicion that the list would continue for a while. “This isn’t a job interview, you’re just bragging. What are you called, Stuck-up Man? Siberius? The Strutter?”

“Superman.”

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” Stiles said. “You–”

He bent over himself, coughing violently. He was starting to really empathize with poor Scotty and his ever-present wheeze.

“I guess I should count imperviousness to smoke inhalation off your resume, then?” Superman remarked.

“I have a limit,” Stiles wheezed. “I’m still human, unlike someone over here, _Snideman_.”

“Well I’m not,” Superman said. “Do I really have to save your sorry ass?”

“I’d live,” Stiles said, stumbling as one side of the building sagged. “You can go off and attack whoever bombed the building instead, if you feel like it.”

“I’ll find them,” Superman said. “I’ll fly you to the nearest Chuck-E-Cheese.”

“How old do think I am?” Stiles yelped. “I’ll have you know I have my GED!”

Superman strode closer. He was clean shaven, with bright blue eyes and slicked-back hair. His pecs were a national monument.

“Carry me bridal style,” Stiles simpered, draping a hand over his forehead and wilting towards Superman. Instead, he felt rock-hard arms grab him around the middle and violently flap him over a shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Stiles would complain, but his face was pretty close to the guy’s ass, so. The cape was a bit annoying, but it would do.

“This is not going to be good for my public image as a hero, you know.”

“Neither would being comatose,” Superman said. “And just know, if you puke on me, I will drop you.”

“I did puke on that Boomerang ride last week,” Stiles said. “And Tower of Terror, once. Also airplanes most times.”

With that, they were suddenly in the air, and Stiles’ stomach – and his dignity – were left behind on the rooftop.

“Holy G force, Batman,” Stiles whimpered, as the ground whipped closer.

They were a few hundred yards up the road, just past most of the crowds, and as Superman dropped Stiles like a rag doll to the pavement, Stiles finally got a good look at the guy.

“You know,” Stiles said. “You’d look great in glasses.”

Superman glared down at him for a moment.

“Go on,” Stiles said. “Shoo. Back to your home planet, weirdo.”

He took off with a whoosh, and Stiles stared up at the sky, squinting to keep the tiny blue dot in his sights for as long as he could.

He picked himself up off of the sidewalk and started walking back from where he came, saluting wearily the civilians he passed by.

Stiles started to work on a good ship name for them. They couldn’t split fifty fifty since they both ended in man, so the options were bleak. Suderman? Supiderman? … _Spuperman_?

“Damn,” Stiles said, shooting a web to take to the sky as his lungs started to feel clearer. “Spuperman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -say hey on tumblr i'm @saintseabasstian  
> -shoutout to tumblr user @voidlydiia for the idea  
> -also lmk if you see any edits i need to make  
> 


	2. Chapter Two

The main office was as bleak and stainless as usual, and Derek stalked down yet another hallway, feet silent on the black stone floor until he finally reached the unmarked door that was his uncle’s office. He didn’t bother to knock. At worst, Peter would have some new secretary fresh out of school bent over his desk, at best, he’d be taking a sip from his illicit bottle of Ciroc he liked to keep in his minibar.

Peter was fortunately indulging in the latter, a tumblr of a clear liquid and a few ice cubes in his right hand. His desk was completely cleared off, with not even a few papers to suggest he would ever be doing any kind of work.

“You could at least knock,” Peter suggested, leaning back in his plush desk chair to prop his feet on the desk.

“You could at least drink something that doesn’t taste like a Jolly Rancher,” Derek said, taking a seat across the expansive desk from Peter. “Doesn’t seem like a particularly imposing drink of choice.”

“Unlike someone, I’m perfectly secure in my masculinity and have absolutely nothing to prove,” Peter said, standing up to cross the room to his barely-hidden minibar, the black door of which blended in with the dark paneling on the side of the room. If it weren’t for the wall of windows behind the desk, the room would feel more like a torture cell than an office. “Speaking of which, would you like a whiskey? Perhaps a glass of snake venom?”

“No,” Derek said. “Aren’t you the slightest bit concerned about the fact that the cancer center we put fifty million dollars into became a pile of melted steel yesterday?”

Peter hummed. “Can’t say I am,” he said, leaning against one of the windows. “They have insurance, surely?”

“You’ll have to do some sort of press conference,” Derek said. “Especially given that it was a deliberate attack. We should increase security at all the other properties with our name emblazoned across them.”

“Of course I’ll do a press conference, dear nephew,” Peter said. “But don’t say _we_ like I would ever do any actual work.”

At least he was honest about his complete and utter lack of helpfulness, Derek thought.

“People are going to want to see your pretty face,” Peter goaded. “All those virile young reporters are going to be absolutely dripping for a chance to get a picture of you with a snappy headline.”

“I’m not doing any press,” Derek said, heading for the door. “I’ll start making phone calls about security measures.”

“Make sure to take good care of the Connecticut house,” Peter shouted as Derek stepped out of the office. “And the beach house!”

Derek made sure to close the door with enough force to be obnoxious but not quite enough to break anything.

Derek headed for the back elevator, glad for the hundredth time that Peter’s floor was a secure level with only a select number of employees able to access it. The Hales had an unfortunate reputation for snobbery and secrecy because of it, but better that than have every schmuck on the street know that Derek and Superman were one and the same. It would probably boost Superman’s notoriety in the relatively small superhero community -- Derek was still a bit shell shocked that the spider boy seemed to have never even heard of him. Not that he’d heard of that kid, either, but he’d like to think that he’d at least ring a bell.

The elevator opened into the garage, and Derek walked towards his Camaro, spinning his keys around his pointer finger as he went. What kind of superhero was that kid, anyway, if he needed rescuing himself? Derek sighed.

“Sir?” 

Derek turned around slowly, scanning the parking garage for the source of the echoing voice. A woman was standing beside her car, a clean white BMW with the hood up. Derek huffed and pushed his thickly rimmed glasses farther up his nose; ran a hand over the layer of stubble across his jaw.

“Need some help?” he asked, walking closer and pocketing his keys.

She sighed, pressing one hand to her sternum. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with it.”

“It wouldn’t start?” Derek asked, peering over the engine.

She nodded, thick blonde hair sliding over her shoulders. “It was running fine this morning, I don’t know what happened.”

“Probably needs a jump,” Derek said. “I’ll drive over.”

The car started easily with a jump. “Must have been your battery,” Derek said. “Just leave the car on for a while, the battery will recharge.”

“Thank you so much,” the woman said. “Oh -- I just realized, I don’t know your name!”

“Derek,” he replied, reaching out a hand for her to shake. She had a firm grip.

She smiled, a wide stretch of white teeth appearing between her red-painted lips. “Lois,” she said, and reached two fingers into the outside pocket on her leather satchel. She pulled out a little white business card and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Derek.”

She climbed into her car and gave him a little wave. Derek watched her go before sinking down into his own car. He took out her business card and stared down at it. Lois Lane. The name rang a bell, but he shrugged and put it away into his wallet.

The drive home was longer than usual. It was rush hour, which he usually avoided by leaving for the day early and returning late. Peter, however, liked to come in when everyone else was getting ready to go home for the day. Derek had called his latest secretary that morning and asked to know when Peter showed up, which was of course not until four in the afternoon. Derek didn’t have the music on in the car, so he sat in silence, staring at the bumper of a neon green Hummer in front of him.

His apartment building fortunately had a private garage that connected directly to the elevator to his penthouse. Not by dumb luck, of course. It had really been his one requirement in finding a place to live.The elevator was gloriously silent, no tinkling Muzak to put him in a more foul mood than he was already. His apartment was filled with noise, however, and Derek tried his best to ignore it as he headed straight for the kitchen island and put his head down on his arms, hoping that he’d appear unapproachable.

“Derek!”

He’d failed.

“Erica,” he said, sitting up straight. She was prancing down the stairs from her bedroom, tiny red skirt bouncing with each step. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I graduated yesterday,” she sang. “But a certain someone forgot about that.”

“Shit!” he said, standing up. “I’m sorry. The hospital-”

“I _know_ ,” she said, patting his arm. “Off living the life, saving babies and pretty women. Got any hot damsel dates?”

Derek closed his eyes. She'd been on Earth six years, but he was still just as annoyed by her today as he was when she first arrived.

“Speaking of hot dates,” she said, hopping onto the stool beside him. “I saw those pictures of you carrying Spiderman! Do you think you could introduce me?”

“You’ve heard of him?” Derek asked curiously. 

Erica gaped. “You _haven’t_?”

Derek shook his head. Maybe the kid was more famous than he’d assumed. He’d seemed more like some obnoxious neighborhood vigilante than a real superhero, but who was he to judge?

“Don’t you ever read the newspaper?” Erica asked, leaning across the granite countertop to reach the paper she’d abandoned by the fruit bowl. She flipped through to the front page, most of which was covered by a color photograph of the hospital collapsing, Derek with the kid thrown over his shoulder in the foreground. His face was thankfully obscured by smoke and distance. Hale Cancer Center Bombed

Derek scanned through the article, and his eye caught on the author’s name.

“ _Lois Lane_?” he exclaimed, holding up the paper to Erica.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Erica said, pushing the paper away from her face. “She writes all of the articles involving superheroes.”

“I just met her in the garage at the office,” Derek said. 

“Huh,” Erica said. “I always figured Lois Lane was a pseudonym.

“She’s a fan of yours, anyway,” Erica said. “Seems to really be angling to get Spiderman in trouble, but Superman can do no wrong in her eyes.”

Derek squinted down at the paper. Did she know who he was? It seemed too much of a coincidence to have run into her like that, and at the office, nonetheless.

“She gave you her card?” Erica said, holding up the card. She had his wallet open in front of her, a fifty dollar bill pinched between her two fingers, the card in her other hand. “You gonna call her?”

Derek snatched the card back, and reached for his wallet. “I’ve told you a thousand times not to go through my stuff. And what do you need money for, I’ve given you plenty.”

“More never hurts,” Erica said, grinning. “And don’t deflect. Is she pretty?”

Derek glared. “I’m not calling her. She’s probably up to some no-good journalism nonsense.”

Erica shrugged, sliding off her stool. “You might be less mopey if you got laid,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a virgin.”

“Go do homework or something,” Derek snapped.

“I’m done with homework forever, Kal-el,” she said, jumping up the staircase in a graceful leap.

“There’s homework in college, dumbass,” he replied. “And don’t call me that, _Kara_.”


	3. Chapter Three

Stiles couldn’t say he felt particularly bad about causing trouble for Superman. The newspapers were all screeching about how his meddling self distracted the “real hero” and could easily have led to additional deaths. Fifteen people had died in the initial blast, but everyone else -- people who were just in the building -- survived. Every article Stiles could get his hands on was filled with what-ifs: what if there had been another person on one of the floors, forgotten in the distraction of Spiderman. What if Superman had assumed Spiderman was the bomber? What if Spiderman _was_ the bomber?

Of all places to meet that beautiful man, why did it have to be filled with dark black smoke? Maybe he wasn’t even attractive, and Stiles had just been delirious from all the smoke inhalation. Already his memory was beginning to fade, and it wasn’t that clear to begin with. He was busy staring at one of the slightly less blurry photographs of Superman, trying to get a better look at that face, when the door to his bedroom swung open

Scott stood there, brandishing The Beacon in one hand, the newspaper crumpled. He was wheezing, as per usual, and Stiles stood up, offering his desk chair. Scott collapsed into it, and Stiles waited while he slowly caught his breath with a few pulls from his inhaler.

“You...could...have died!” Scott finally gasped.

“Nah,” Stiles said, flipping open the newspaper. He hadn’t read this article yet. It was by damn Lois Lane, of course, which was the main reason why he hadn’t bothered to look at it. It would make a plea to law enforcement to arrest him, feature quotes from fiercely arachnophobic citizens, and conclude with some snappy pun about the whole scenario. Stiles scanned down the columns before dropping the paper on the floor with the others. “Seems like everyone’s got a hard-on for Superman.”

“Don’t sound so bitter,” Scott said. “Getting rescued from a burning building’s not a good look for you.”

“Hey!” Stiles said, gesturing at the pictures emblazoned on the newspapers. “My butt looks great!”

“Your butt _does_ look great,” Scott said. “Maybe try to avoid being the damsel in distress next time, though. For your safety and your image.”

“I would do it all over again if I had the chance,” Stiles said dreamily. “You should have seen the guy. I think his day job must be modelling. Ooh, or firefighting.”

“Doubt it,” Scott said. “He’s probably a low-life like you.” 

“Funny,” Stiles said. “Are you going to the grad party at Lydia’s house tonight?”

“Yeah dude. You should take a shower first, though, you smell like burnt rubber,” Scott said, shaking his head. 

“My natural odo--”

“ _Oh!_ ” Scott exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “I almost forgot to tell you, you have to see what my mom got me for graduation! She had it outside when we got back from the ceremony yesterday!”

Stiles followed Scott downstairs, tuning out the endless chatter. Sometimes he wondered how Scott didn’t induce asthma attacks just by talking. 

Scott burst out the front door, immediately smacking into John.

“Sorry, sir!” Scott said. 

“That your motorcycle illegally parked outside?” John asked, slipping past Scott into the kitchen, giving Stiles a pat -- really more of a whack -- on the shoulder.

“Yeah!” Scott said. “Isn’t it great?”

“I’d say so,” John said. “Why don’t you drive it home so I can yell at my son?”

Scott turned towards Stiles wide-eyed. “Can he still come to Lydia’s tonight?”

“We’ll see,” John replied, making a shooing motion with his hands. “Go on. Don’t you want to at least try and make your hair look combed for Allison?”

Scott nodded and stumbled down the stoop, giving Stiles one more glance. 

“So,” John said, grabbing a beer from the fridge and pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. “Mind telling me where you disappeared to?”

“I was wondering the same thing about you!” Stiles said. “Were you at work this whole time? I could barely read your sticky note, by the way! What’d it even say, _Rave to go in lasagna stay safe dad_? What does that _mean_? Why’d you only just get home? Did you even sleep at all in the last thirty six hours?”

“I was helping out dealing with the _giant building that collapsed in the middle of the city_ , you may have heard heard about it.” 

“Oh yeah,” Stiles said. “Forgot about that.”

“It’s a miracle so few people died,” John said, shaking his head. “That super kid really saved a lot of lives.”

“Ye-a-h,” Stiles hedged. 

“That spider boy, though,” John laughed. “Did you see the pictures in the paper? Some superhero, getting carried away.”

“Yup,” Stiles said. “Some superhero, huh?” 

“So where might you have been.” 

“Oh, yeah, well, ya see,” Stiles squinted down at his father. “I heard about the explosion and wanted to go check it out.”

Better to only tell have the truth than none of it, right? Stiles braced himself against the counter, hoping that his dad would launch directly into a tirade about safety rather than asking any more questions.

“Son,” John sighed. “One of these days your curiosity might damn near kill you. And they don’t think it was an explosion, you know.”

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles said, waving away the comment. “What’s this about the explosion, then? Don’t tease me.”

“It was some kind of extreme, sudden burst of heat, but more like an instantaneous bonfire than an explosion,” John said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Might be some new kind of weapon.” 

“Whoa,” Stiles said. “What else have you heard?”

John gave him a look. “Nothing. You’re lucky I even told you that.”

“Aw, come on.” 

“You left your Jeep down at the cathedral, huh?” John asked, taking a swig of his beer. 

“Aw, shit,” Stiles said, shooting a glance out the window. His spot in the driveway was indeed empty. He could tell that this was his dad’s way of changing the subject, but he was making a fair point. The car was very much not here.

“Since you must have walked to go stare at the Hale Center collapsing,” John said, tapping his chin. “I suppose you’ll be fine walking to the cathedral to get your Jeep tonight to go to that party?”

Stiles suppressed a sigh. “Yeah.”

“Thought so,” John said, grinning. “Better go get ready, then. You’ve only got an hour and change.”

“What about dinner?” Stiles asked.

“Given we’re in a bit of a time crunch, why don’t you order us some takeout?” John suggested, still grinning. “Chinese. No more than one vegetable-based dish.”

Stiles cursed his way up the stairs. John smiled to himself, finishing off his beer. Parenting could be fun, sometimes. 

By the time Stiles had scarfed down as much of the unhealthiest options (to keep them away from his father, obviously) as possible, he had barely five minutes before he was supposed to be at Lydia’s house. 

“Better sprint,” John laughed, waving at Stiles as he jogged down the driveway.

Stiles waited until he’d rounded the corner at the end of the street before diving into a dense shrubbery and shucking off his outer layers in favor of his spidey suit. He’d thought ahead this time, wearing a little backpack to stuff his clothes and shoes into. He took off again, wondering for the thousandth time if there were any security cameras that had just witnessed his not-so-subtle bush transformation. 

The city center wasn’t too far, so it was within a few minutes of running that he reached buildings to swing along. Nobody, fortunately, drove by while he was just jogging down the street. He could imagine that news article. _Spiderman Neighborhood Watch? Spiderman Gets Some Cardio In?_ Ugh. 

The church parking lot was entirely empty apart from his lonely little Jeep, so Stiles quickly peeled off his mask and gloves in the front seat, covering back up with a long sleeved t-shirt, jeans, tall socks and sneakers. He would probably be drenched in sweat pretty quickly, but the suit was quickly becoming something like a security blanket for him. Without it, he felt constantly on the edge, knowing that this would be the one time some disaster struck and he would be forced to reveal his identity in order to save anyone. It was fine, anyway. People probably thought he was just insecure, always dressed in a dozen layers.

The drive was dark and quiet, only a few cars passing by on the other side the whole way. Stiles was almost a half an hour late by the time he pulled up. Tenth grade him would be freaking out at offending dear Lydia Martin, shoving his thick glasses up his nose as he ran up her lawn. Just-graduated him was a little annoyed at having to park a few cars down the street.

“Stiles!” Allison said the moment he walked in the door, hugging him gingerly. “Do you want a drink?”

“Thanks,” he said, nodding. Allison disappeared into the kitchen. If he didn’t know her better he might think she was just absurdly nice, but he knew she just really liked playing bartender. 

Stiles headed into the room Allison had emerged from. There were plush couches along two walls, with people draped across them. Scott, Lydia, Jackson, Erica, and Boyd took up all the seats, so Stiles sat on the floor in front of Boyd, thinking he’d be the least likely to kick him. 

“It’s not like you to be late,” Lydia said. 

“I do hope you’ll forgive me, my queen,” Stiles pleaded, leaning forward to bow to her. He shot a glance at Jackson as he sat back up, who had a sour look on his sour face. He and Lydia were currently on the “off” part of their excessively on-and-off love affair. It was an amicable enough off that he was still on her nice list, but not amicable enough to make the on-again come any sooner. Stiles quite enjoyed taunting him whenever they were on a break, knowing that he couldn’t make any obnoxious jealous comments when she wasn’t his to defend. 

“I don’t think I will,” Lydia sniffed. “Allison! What’s taking so long?”

Allison came back in, juggling four drinks in her hands. 

Lydia took two of them, handing one off to Erica, who was lying splayed across Lydia’s legs. Allison gave Stiles his cup before sitting on Scott’s lap with her own drink. Stiles tilted the cup to test the taste, and coughed as it just touched his tongue. Allison made _very_ strong drinks. He was pretty sure it was supposed to be a Long Island Iced Tea, but he was fairly certain she’d just poured various liquors in and topped it off with a bit of Arizona. He set the drink down on the ground, planning on ignoring it until it’d been long enough that he could reasonably go and get a less horrific drink for himself without offending Allison.

“So where’d you run off to in the middle of graduation, Stiles?” Erica asked, rolling onto her side enough to stare him down. “You missed the senior slideshow.”

“I heard about the Hale Center,” Stiles said. “Went to go check it out.”

Erica’s eyebrows raised. 

“Oh!” Stiles said, sitting up straighter. “Have you heard from your, eh, brother anything about it?”

She pursed her lips. “Even if I had, I couldn’t tell you,” she said. 

“Well,” Stiles said. “I heard -- and this doesn’t leave the room, what happens at Lydia’s stays at Lydia’s -- that it wasn’t an explosion.”

“Of course it was an explosion, you idiot,” Jackson said. 

“There are all those videos of flames bursting out of the windows,” Allison said. 

“Yeah, see, I guess it was like an extreme burst of heat, like an instant fire that was hot enough to do all that damage,” Stiles said. “Some new kind of weapon.”

Erica frowned and slid up onto her elbows.

“They don’t think it was a terrorist attack, do they?” Scott asked. 

Lydia shrugged. “What else would it be?”

Boyd huffed and stood up, walking over to the kitchen table littered with bottles. 

“Could it have been an accident?” he asked, his voice carrying in from the other room. 

Two of the partiers from the crowded backyard stumbled through the deck door, letting in a rush of music and noise as they careened through the house. They watched the two go before settling back down. The TV flickered mutely across the room, and Stiles found it hard to ignore from the corner of his eye. The spider bite had cured many things, but his ADHD still had its moments, particularly when he neglected to take his Adderall for weeks at a time. 

“Someone get me another drink,” Lydia said. Jackson stood up and plucked her cup from her hand wordlessly, prowling into the kitchen. 

“How sweet,” Erica said, watching him go. Lydia hummed softly. 

“I’ve been trying to learn how to do wheelies,” Scott said, readjusting Allison in his lap to get a better view of the room. Everyone groaned. 

“Wheelies, Scott?” Allison asked, turning to glare at him. “You just learned how to drive it today.”

“Well,” he said. “I watched some videos, and-”

“No,” Allison said. 

Scott sighed and leaned back against the couch cushions again. Boyd returned to the room, taking Jackson’s seat down by Lydia and Erica. Stiles stood up to take what had been Boyd’s seat, so when Jackson came back in he stood there in silence for a long moment before handing Lydia’s drink off to her and walking outside. 

“What a drama queen,” Erica said. 

Stiles laughed, toeing off his sneakers and pulling his feet up under him. 

“Does anyone have the remote?” Boyd asked, frowning at the TV.

Stiles glanced over at it and immediately felt his heart jump into his throat. 

“It’s under the coffee table,” Lydia said softly, staring at the TV. 

Stiles lunged for it, his sleeve tugging up on his arm enough for a little flash of blue and red to show. He yanked it back down as he sank back into his seat, un-muteing the TV. 

“-side the office building shared by Fisk Law and Palmer Technical -- absolute chaos as late night employees and partiers from nearby clubs run from what looks to be another bombing,” the reporter said, her short black hair drifting into her face from the heat of the flames behind her. “Superman is at it again, and has been here on the scene evacuating individuals since, according to eyewitnesses, only moments after the flames erupted here.”

The building was in flames from the ground up, the heaviest concentration of the fire at the first few levels, but the smoke reached all the way to the top, where a tiny flicker of color and movement seemed to be Superman. Stiles licked his lips, his mouth going dry. 

“You can see he’s almost reached the top floor,” the reporter exclaimed. “He’s been bringing the evacuees to the tops of nearby buildings, it seems for speed. Death toll estimates are low, given that most clocked-in employees were on the upper floors. Whether or not this building will collapse is unknown. Fire crews are already hard at work trying to extinguish the flames; no first responders have had to enter the building given that Superman is doing that job for them. Several bodies have also been removed from the building, but it is likely that some may be incinerated beyond recovery. Here--”

“I have to text my dad,” Lydia said suddenly, her face pale. She was staring off into the distance as she pulled her phone from her pocket. 

“Does he _work_ there?” Erica asked, quickly scrambling off of Lydia. 

“Yes,” Lydia said, typing rapidly away at her phone. “He works on the top floor. He sends me pictures of the city, sometimes.”

Stiles turned back to the TV, just in time to see the building teeter and partially collapse -- the bottom few floors sandwiched, lowering the whole tower, and the roof crumbled and tilted ominously. 

“Oh, my god,” Allison said. 

“He’s at home,” Lydia sighed in relief, clutching her phone to her chest, her eyes scrunched shut. 

Stiles felt a pang of relief through his chest, but he continued to stare at the TV, fingers of his left hand running along the red and blue fabric at his other wrist. 

“The search for survivors seems to be slowing as debris and rubble blocks the way,” the reporter said. “With what looks like three floors left to search, and the roof partially collapsed, Superman’s speed is decreasing rapidly, and --”

Stiles stood up. 

“I need some air,” he said, scratching at where his collar dug into his neck.

Allison, Scott, and Lydia immediately looked up, trying to catch his eye. He glanced at Allison, who nodded slightly, and he turned and left. The air had grown cool in the short span of time since he’d arrived, and he could see the glow of the fire against the dark night sky as he ran to his car, realizing immediately that he’d forgotten to put his shoes on, as the damp grass soaked through his soaks and suit. He turned on the radio, hoping to be able to hear if his assistance was suddenly no longer needed. It didn’t sound like much had changed -- there seemed to be still two floors to go, and the building was “viciously unstable” according to the Fire Marshall. 

Stiles screeched to a stop at the side of the road as soon as he was within a reasonable distance of the building, quickly shedding his clothes for the second time that night. As he swung up to the building, he could see why Superman was struggling even with all his strength and absurd superpowers. There was rubble everywhere, with people likely pinned, and at best very well hidden and hard to reach. 

He landed softly on a solid patch of roof, just in time for Superman to fly by with a survivor in his arms. 

“Don’t just stand there,” he shouted as he went by. 

Stiles jumped into action -- or, more accurately, fell into action, as he careened down through a hole in the roof to land in the dark. There wasn’t very much smoke, as it seemed to be mostly escaping out the lower windows and rising outside. 

“Is anyone there?” Stiles shouted, running through the floor, jumping over broken desks and piles of steel and concrete. 

He could hear a voice faintly, and he ran to it. A skinny man in a suit was pinned by his desk and several large beams. Stiles lifted them off before scooping the man up and running back the way he’d come. He handed the man off to Superman, unsure of his ability to quickly get back and forth between this and another building, before climbing back down into the dark. He could hear Superman tossing wreckage around in the floor below, intermittant with the long pauses that hopefully indicated a rescue. There were other soft noises, and he was certain he’d heard a voice off in the far corner of the floor. 

The building groaned and sank more, sending up a cloud of dust. Stiles could barely see, but he could just make out the shape of Superman by the big hole he’d entered through. He disappeared back down a floor. 

Stiles turned away and peeled his mask back, knowing he’d be able to see and breathe and hear just a bit better without it on. He really thought he’d heard someone over here, so he moved faster, scrambling over a water cooler and a broken easel. This was the lower, collapsed side of the building, so there weren’t any holes in the ceiling, and the moving space was short. Stiles was crawling by the time he heard the voice again. 

“Hello?” he called frantically, on his hands and knees. 

“Help,” they said again, their voice cracked and dry. 

Stiles saw them then, in barely three feet of vertical space, a metal beam from the ceiling through their gut. His stomach turned at the sight, and he crawled closer.

The man lifted his head slightly, and smiled just a tiny bit when he saw him.

“No mask,” he said, barely audible. Stiles couldn’t tell if the sound that came next was a laugh or a death rattle. 

He grabbed the beam and yanked upwards, shifting it up a foot. It was still lodged within him, and the building was shaking. 

“Fuck,” Stiles said, and yanked again. The beam emerged, and Stiles pushed it up through the little hole from which it came before grabbing the guy by the ankles and pulling him towards the nearest window, which was blackened enough to be absolutely opaque. What Stiles wanted to know was where the _fuck_ was Superman? There couldn’t be sixty people on the next floor down, he couldn’t help a brother out? 

Stiles shot some webbing around the dude, securing him to his hand so that even if he passed out or his elbow fucking broke he wouldn’t drop the poor guy. He lifted him over his shoulder in that same damn fireman’s carry and ran head on into the window, realizing belatedly that he hadn’t put the mask back on. Suspended in midair, already beginning to fall, Stiles looked around for _something_ to attach to, left arm extended, ready to shoot web and grab on. The buildings were all too low, and Stiles looked up, praying, and saw Superman flying on his way out of the building, heading for one of the roofs covered in survivors. Stiles aimed for his feet and shot.


	4. Chapter Four

The suit lay puddled in the corner by the door, looking vaguely like blood out of the corner of Derek’s eye. He stabbed at his cereal, spoon clinking against the bottom of the bowl. Morning was breaking, shafts of sunlight beginning to poke their way through his windows and across his floor until they reached and warmed his feet. The door to the apartment rattled before swinging open. Erica waltzed in, stopping in her tracks to stare down at the suit. 

“Uh.” she said, poking it with her toe. “Did you kill him or did you fuck him?”

“ _Erica_ ,” Derek said, dropping his spoon to the counter with a clatter. “Neither, thank you.”

“So you just stripped him for fun?” Erica asked, grinning. “Is he cute?” 

“I had to bring him to a hospital,” Derek muttered. 

“Aw.” Erica said, sidestepping the suit and heading for the fridge. “So you were protecting his identity. How sweet.”

“I’m sure he’d do the same for me,” Derek said. 

“I doubt you’d ever be in need of a hospital visit,” Erica scoffed. “You’re not _Peter_.”

Derek shook his head at her.

“Sorry, jeez,” she said. “You didn’ answer my question, you know. Is he cute?” 

“He’s a child,” Derek said. 

“A _child_?” Erica exclaimed.

“A teenager,” Derek amended. 

“Well,” Erica huffed, arms piled with food as she meandered up to her room. “I suppose I would settle for a younger man, though older would have been nice.”

“Go to your room,” Derek said, gesturing for her to hurry up. “Go on.”

“So you saw him naked?” Erica asked, halfway up the stairs. 

“No, Erica,” Derek said.

“Boxers or briefs, then?” she asked, grinning. 

“If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”

“Probably.”

“Boxer briefs,” Derek said. “Go away.” 

Erica cackled and disappeared through her door. 

Derek glanced over at the suit once more before pulling a slip of paper from his pocket and frowning down at it. He’d found it tucked into a hidden pocket in the leg of the suit, and it had an address written on it. When he looked it up, it was the address of a giant church on the other side of the city, and he’d been a bit disappointed. Part of him wanted desperately to know the identity of this mostly obnoxious and partially helpful idiot, and had hoped that the address would lead to the guy’s home. Although, who would be carrying a note with their own address on it? 

He picked up his phone, turning it over in his hands. He had to get the suit back to the kid somehow. 

 

.

 

Stiles woke up slower than he was accustomed to. Usually, he would snap awake, startled by some noise or a nightmare. He could barely get his eyelids open now, though. He shifted up onto his elbows and squinted against the bright white light of the room. He was entirely alone, and he started to slide off the bed when he felt a sharp tug at the crease of his elbow.

“Fuck,” he said, staring down at the long IV trailing from his elbow. 

A head poked into his room at the outburst, and a skinny nurse jogged into his room.

“You’re awake!” she exclaimed. “I’ll get the doctor.”

She disappeared again, and Stiles slid the IV out from under his skin, watching as the blood immediately welled and began to dry as the cut healed. The floor was cold beneath his feet as he went over to open the various drawers and cupboards. 

“I’m Dr. Taylor,” a woman said. “And...you’re supposed to be in bed.” 

Stiles flinched and peered over his shoulder. The doctor, tall and blonde and angry looking, was standing by the doorway.

“How’d I get here?” Stiles asked, sitting back on the edge of the hospital bed. 

“You were dropped off in front of the ER doors,” the doctor said. “In your underwear.” 

“Oh!” Stiles said, realizing that he sounded far too excited. The doctor squinted at him. “Is there anything wrong with me?” 

“We assumed it was an overdose-”

“No!” Stiles exclaimed, waving his hands. 

She gave him a tired look. He wondered how long her shift had been going on for. 

“...But there was no trace of any drugs. You had what seemed to be smoke inhalation, maybe some dehydration, a few minor scrapes and bruises,” she said, tapping on her clipboard. “We were concerned you had a concussion based on your unconsciousness, but there was no evidence of that. So you’re just hooked up to some fluids and painkillers.” 

She glanced at the abandoned IV line. “Or, rather, you were hooked up to some fluids and painkillers.” 

“I feel great,” Stiles said. “I was probably just sleep deprived. What hospital is this, anyway?”

“Fairweather’s,” she said. 

Fairweather’s was probably the farthest hospital from the office building that was still technically in the city. They usually got to deal with drug deals gone south and gang violence, since they were in the dingy, poorly-kempt corner of the city. Stiles shook his head, wondering why Superman would have bothered to go to all the trouble when he could have just abandoned him in a park and hoped for the best. 

She blinked at him owlishly. “We’ll just run a few tests and you’ll be free to go.”

“Do you know who I am?” Stiles asked. 

Dr. Taylor looked momentarily alarmed. 

“No- no, _I_ know who I am, I was just wondering...nevermind, it’s a moot point,” Stiles said. “And if you don’t mind, I have to go to the bathroom before those tests?”

She sighed and left. Not the best bedside manner, but that could be for the best. Stiles walked over to the window and peered down. Third floor. Not too bad, at least makes it more plausible for a completely normal, ordinary, very-not-super-powered boy to have somehow climbed down it. They’d probably assume he’d just slipped past security somehow, anyway. 

He picked up the room’s phone and dialed Scott. He didn’t pick up, not a surprise considering that it was barely six in the morning, so Stiles left a message. 

The window slid open about a foot and a half, leaving a bolted in screen. Stiles glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was in the hallway, and then gave the screen a kick. It went flying out of the frame with a bang. He climbed out, pausing to shut the window before quickly descending to the abandoned courtyard below. He was mildly concerned about someone seeing him, but hopefully their first thought would be _wow, an escaped mental patient_ and not _wow, that kid must have suction cups on his palms or else he’d definitely Spiderman_. 

He tied his hospital gown tighter around himself once he reached the ground, and hustled across the courtyard to what looked like a main lobby through the glass. He reached about halfway across said lobby before hospital employees started calling for him to stop. He ignored them, bursting out the front doors and sprinting headlong for the shitty dive bar he knew was nearby. It would probably still be open, catering to the most alcoholic of alcoholics. Lo and behold, the door swung open, and he slipped in with a prayer. 

It was dark inside, the windows grungy enough to block out any sign of the rapidly rising sun. The bar was coated with ring stains and peanut shells, and Stiles ignored that, heading straight past the two sad-looking men with poorly maintained beards to the bathroom. He locked himself in there, stopping just inside the door when he felt just how sticky the floor was underneath his very bare feet. He did his best to stay on his tiptoes, and hoped and prayed that Scott would get the message soon and rescue him. Last thing he needed was his dad or one of his dad’s buddies responding to a 911 call about a boy in a hospital gown running barefoot through the city streets. 

The single light bulb in the bathroom flickered constantly and irregularly, and Stiles had to squeeze his eyes tightly shut to keep it all out. He could hear occasionally clinking from the bar, but no sign of Scott. He tended to be an early riser, so Stiles expected not to have to wait more than an hour or two. 

He sank to the disgusting floor after an hour, nothing but his underwear and the hospital gown between him and the unmentionable fluids, and was half asleep when he heard voices from the bar. 

“Oh, no, I’m not here to drink, I’m not twenty one!”

Stiles groaned and threw open the door, emerging back into the bar. Scott was standing by the door, hands raised defensively at the scruffy bartender.

“Scotty,” Stiles said, as cheerfully as he could manage. “Finally!”

Stiles went to hug his friend, but the bartender loudly slammed a glass to the bar. 

“Get out,” he growled, gesturing to the door.

Scott’s motorcycle rumbled outside, and Stiles sighed. 

“I’m in a hospital gown,” he said. “I feel like that’s not optimal motorcycling attire.”

“It’ll have to do,” Scott said, thrusting a helmet into Stiles’ hands. 

“Just take me near where the fire happened,” Stiles shouted into the wind as they took off, weaving between cars. “I left my car in a creepy parking lot.”

Scott dumped him off beside his car, which had a lovely ticket tucked under the windshield wiper, of course, and peered at him as he reached up into the well of one of the wheels to retrieve his stashed keys.

“One of these days, you’re gonna get really hurt, Stiles,” Scott said. “You should be more careful.”

“I heal fast enough that it doesn’t matter,” Stiles said. “I wasn’t even really hurt this time, I just passed out. Could have happened after a night of studying just as easily.”

Scott shook his head and zipped away, disappearing as he went around the police lines and media vans surrounding the husk of the building nearby. Stiles watched him go out of sight before climbing into the Jeep, leaving the hospital gown pooled on the concrete. He sure hoped there wouldn’t be any tragedies requiring his help for a while, because unless he happened to bump into Superman at the grocery store or something, he wouldn’t have a suit to wear. Other than the shitty one buried in his underwear drawer that Lydia called “an embarrassment”. People would think he was Spiderman’s lame cousin if he made a public appearance in that mangy old thing. 

Stiles fumbled with the keys, jamming them into the ignition with a prayer mumbled under his breath. The car grumbled awake and he slapped the steering wheel in excitement. It was just barely seven thirty, so Stiles figured it was a nearly plausible time for him to returning home after what his dad had expected to be an ordinary night spent with his friends. He turned left, away from the burnt building, even though it would take twice as long to get home. He didn’t feel like looking at it. He still hadn’t heard if there ended up being any victims they missed on those upper floors. 

The lights in the house were all on, and Stiles braced himself, ready to act entirely natural. His dad had no real reason to suspect that any funny business had occurred, but sometimes he seemed to draw conclusions based on absolutely no evidence that were somehow spot on. 

“He-ey, dad,” Stiles said, slinking into the kitchen. John was leaned back in his chair at the table, half a bagel in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other. 

“Hey, kid,” he said, lowering the paper. Another front-page story about Spiderman, wonderful. “Have fun?”

“Of course,” Stiles said, leaning closer to peer at the newspaper. They’d gotten a picture of him with his mask slid up on his face, but it was so far away that just about the only conclusion someone could possibly draw was that he was white. He was dangling precariously from Superman’s boot in the picture, one arm stretched up and connected by a thin thread, the rest of his body dangling limply, the poor guy from the building suspended from his other slack arm. Superman seemed to be glaring down at him incredulously. He had to have gone unconscious just as he connected to Superman’s stupid foot. 

“Another attack,” John sighed. “It seems like this is some kind of spree.”

“Hmm,” Stiles said, picking up the paper and scanning the contents. “Definitely doesn’t look good.”


	5. Chapter Five

Lois Lane was having an excellent day. She had yet another cover story, this one the best yet. Her boss was damn near coming in his stupid, dog-hair covered pants from all the attention the story was getting, and he kept walking by her desk with that dumb grin all over his face, just to rap on the edge of her desk as he went by. 

Derek Hale was having a terrible day. He woke up to the sound of Erica singing in the shower, and trudged into work only to receive a gracious phone call from Peter all about how _lovely_ it was that he finally did some PR. To top it off, some intern had smashed into him with a tray full of coffees and he’d forgotten for a good ten seconds to act like the scalding liquid was hurting him. It was fine, though, most of the interns seemed to think he was some heartless machine anyway, so what else was new? 

Stiles Stilinski hadn’t woken up yet. He was still sprawled face down into his mattress, drool steadily leaking out of one corner of his mouth onto his pillow. He woke up to the sound of his phone trilling a text message alert for at least the tenth time. Why he’d left the volume on, he wasn’t sure, and he was more than a little annoyed at his past self for not muting the phone. 

He slid off the bed, reaching for his phone where it lay on the ground charging, a few feet away. There were thirteen messages, all from Scott. Stiles sighed and rolled onto his side, scrolling back to where the messages started. 

7:03a _Are u up?_  
7:20a _Stiles_  
7:40a _Bro_  
8:03a _Text me when you get up_  
8:30a _Get up_  
8:47a _Aw shit just realized it’s not even 9_  
8:47a _Sorry_  
9:00a _Stiles?_  
9:09a _I know you went to sleep at like 8 last night u should be up_  
9:10a _Is ur volume off?_  
9:12a _Stiles_  
9:30a _Just come over when you wake up_  
9:38a _Its not a safety thing dnt worry_

Stiles sat up, rubbing his eyes. Almost fourteen hours of sleep. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been that messed up from all the smoke; it was probably just his regular self being inhumanly capable of becoming comatose on a whim. He’d barely moved yesterday, either. He’d spent most of it on the couch, watching his dad putter by once in a while. 

The cruiser was long since gone from the driveway, nothing but a few crumbs on the kitchen counter beside the toaster to imply his dad’s shift had started at a reasonable hour and not in the middle of the night. Stiles opened a few cabinets, clucking his tongue before giving up and heading for his car. 

The roads were all quiet on the way to Scott’s house. Stiles couldn’t help but keep at least one ear tuned for danger all the time. Not that that was anything new, of course. He’d been trying to bust criminals since he could walk -- he still was proud of the time he figured out who was running the second-grade spelling test cheating ring. Sometimes it felt like Danny was still holding a grudge against him for that. 

Scott’s house was less than quiet. The moment Stiles pulled into the driveway he could hear Scott’s characteristic wheeze as he barrelled down the flight of stairs -- Stiles winced, knowing when to expect the loud _thud_ of Scott slipping on the last step and landing butt, knees, or hands first on the carpet at the bottom. 

A beat of silence passed, and Stiles slid out of the Jeep, headed for the front door. It swung open as he approached, Scott framed in the doorway with a grin on his face and a newspaper in his hand. 

And what looked like the beginning of a bruise on his forehead. 

“Hey, man,” Stiles said, bounding up the front steps. “You finally find out that newspapers exist?” 

Scott frowned and whacked Stiles with the newspaper. 

“No,” he said, flourishing the front page. “But Superman did!” 

“I don’t want to hear about that show-off,” Stiles said, snatching the paper from Scott. “Why’d it have to be _The Daily Beacon_? They hate me.”

“They don’t hate Superman though!” Scott said, beckoning for Stiles to follow him into the house. 

Stiles’ eyes skimmed over the news article, oblivious to Scott’s overtures. Scott grabbed his wrist and yanked him inside and to the kitchen. 

“Why don’t they ever interview me?” Stiles asked, abandoning the paper for a moment to open the fridge. “Did your mom bake _cookies_?” 

“I helped!” Scott chirped. 

Stiles’ mouth turned down. 

“You did, bud?”

“Shut up, Stiles, they’re good, try one!” Scott said. “But you have to read the whole article first.”

“Since when do you even read the paper?” Stiles grumbled, taking the plate of cookies back to the kitchen island where he’d left the newspaper. 

“I like reading the newspaper,” Scott protested. “I like to keep up with the news and the...new things they write about.”

Stiles gave him a dubious look.

“Yeah, okay, my mom was going on and on this morning about how handsome Superman is and how charming his interview was and she made me read it,” Scott shrugged. “But I’m gonna start reading the newspaper all the time now.”

Stiles grinned down at the paper, absently shoving a second cookie into his mouth. They actually were really good, which made him wonder if by “help” Scott meant that he just took the ingredients out of the cabinets while his mom did everything else. The last time he’d seen a baked creation of Scott’s, it was a cake that was half an inch thick because he’d mixed up baking powder and baking soda, and the frosting was somehow burnt. 

**Superman Tells All In First Interview: Is the Man of Steel Not a Man at All?** the headline blared. The byline attributed the article to Lois Lane. Stiles had only seen her name before associated with articles that were on the far side of mean towards him and the far side of fangirl towards Superman. 

“Is this saying he’s a woman?” Stiles said. “Because I got up close and personal with him, and I guarantee you I could see very not-womanly outlines through that very tight outfit of his.”

“Stiles, you literally prance around in a glorified head-to-toe pair of pantyhose,” Scott said. “Just read the article.”

_Superman’s call came the morning after his heroic actions at Fisk and Palmer Building -- the man doesn’t take much down time, it seems. But that constant drive to be active in the community starts to make more sense when you get to know Superman, as I have been privileged to do._

_Our conversation was a series of surprises, starting with the revelation of his real name -- the guy doesn’t go by Superman normally, ladies and gentlemen. His given name, he says, is Kal-El._

_“It’s kind of an unusual name, yeah,” says Kal-El, whose voice has the tone of amusement in it as we talk, like he’s always smiling. “But it’s actually a normal name where I come from.”_

_I asked him what he meant by that -- was he not American?_

_“No, I’m very much an American,” he said, laughing. “But I’m actually from a planet called Krypton.”_

_Readers might be familiar with the planet, as it was mentioned by the President in her address on alien settlers three years ago. But if anyone listened to that address as closely as I did, keen to know more about who these aliens were that were invading our planet, they’ll know that she referenced its destruction. I asked Kal-El to address this -- is he the sole survivor of the planet?_

_“I came to Earth as a baby during Krypton’s collapse,” Kal-El reveals._

_This harkens back to part of the President’s address: refugees from other planets have been arriving here for millennia, probably since before the human species evolved, and as such she called upon the nation to accept these refugees. But at what point are we responsible for standing up for our own land and way of life?_

_“I was raised just like any human child,” Kal-El says. “I’ve been a regular member of society, and I would never do anything to take advantage of the Earth or its residents.”_

_If every alien were like Kal-El, the alien resistance parties would likely disband. He is undeniably charming, and while he refuses to take any close-ups, it seems from the many action shots of him that he’s quite the handsome man -- or rather, alien._

_Superman has been notoriously tight-lipped, refusing interviews left and right, even once famously erasing a recording of him taken by an intrepid reporter. I couldn’t help but wonder why he chose now to suddenly open up to the press. Kal-El confides that he had ulterior motives in calling me to do this interview._

_“I actually need you to relay a message for me,” he says._

_For an international superhero and intergalactic space alien, this seems like a small demand in exchange for an interview. But the message, he says, is for Spiderman, who has endeavored to endanger our city relentlessly, only occasionally -- perhaps accidentally -- managing to help a scarce few individuals._

_“I’m not friends with him, no,” Superman says. “I don’t think that a kid should be involved in this kind of work, it’s too dangerous and difficult, and can get more people hurt than it helps.”_

_“A kid?” I ask. Could it be that Spiderman, generally assumed to be either a humanoid alien, with a face too otherworldly to expose, or a technologically enhanced vigilante, is actually a human boy?_

_There is a pregnant pause after I ask this -- what I would take to be confirmation. Kal-El, filled with charm and poise (it’s frankly shocking that he is not a more regular interviewee) steers the conversation away._

_“He needs to know that what he lost I left for him at the address that was in his pocket,” says Kal-El._

_Interesting, to say the least. It doesn’t seem that the two are willingly working together, despite their simultaneous appearances at the Hale Cancer Center and the Fisk and Palmer building. For now, all we know is that Superman, a hero of our city, is an alien, not a technologically enhanced human as we were all previously inclined to assume. Whether or not this will lead the people of our great city to think less of him, only time will tell._

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles said, flipping the newspaper over and out of sight. “Lois Lane can shove it.”

“But dude,” Scott said. “You can get your suit back now, right?”

“Are you kidding me? I don’t know what I had in my pocket!” Stiles exclaimed, reaching into his pockets and spilling their contents on the counter. “Look at this! I carry around complete and utter garbage, for all I know it was the address to a Chinese restaurant I went to a decade ago!”

“That seems unlikely,” Scott mumbled. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles said. “The point is, I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking. If anything, I’m worse off than I was before, because now if I make an appearance without my suit, people are going to think I’m an idiot!”

“People won’t think you’re an idiot,” Scott said. “He didn’t even say what it was that he left for you.”

“They’ll figure it out,” Stiles said. “Besides, Superman will know, and that’s embarrassing enough.”

“You should just go talk to Allison,” Scott said. “She can probably help you get a new suit.”

Stiles sighed. He didn’t really like asking Allison for favors, even if she she was always happy to help. 

“I’ll come along!” Scott said, picking up the mostly-barren plate of cookies. Stiles snagged one with a string of web as Scott walked away, earning himself a glare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's literally been an entire year since I've updated this because I'm a terrible person with terrible memory and honestly forgot about this for an embarrassingly long time. But better late than never, right? (*nervous laughter*) 
> 
> If you don't hate me come hang out with me on tumblr @sgtjmsbrns


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